


Hospital Green

by notjustmom



Series: Colours [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's been back a while, bit of angst, hospital fic, okay a lot of angst but it's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I grew up around hospitals, parents were doctors, partner is a doctor, so naturally, of course I loathe hospitals. There is an odour and a certain colour scheme to them. I tried to find a shade that fit, but realised there is just something that in my mind is hospital green. I'm sure there is a paint chip somewhere named 'hospital green,' I think you know the colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hospital Green

Sherlock had stopped pacing the room two hours ago. He'd had his last cup of warmish brown coloured water fifteen minutes ago, and Mycroft had told him to go home two and a half seconds ago.

"NoPe."

"Sherlock. At least go back to Baker Street, take a shower, change your clothes. I'll have my car -"

"NO."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother, then looked at the silent, still form of Dr. Watson in the hospital bed and knew he was wasting his breath. "If you change your mind -" He reached out a hand to touch the younger, shivering man in front of him, but pulled it back, knowing it would not help at the moment. He quietly turned on his heel and left the room.

"I never really liked green. No. That's not quite true. I like the leafy greens, grass greens, the greens that mean something is growing. Even that odd moss green, but this green. This colour they insist on putting on the walls and floors of hospitals. I believe it's meant to be neutral, meant to be inoffensive, calming somehow. As often as we seem to end up in hospital, you'd think I would've become immune or indifferent to it by now. But, I'm not, I find I passionately hate this colour."

Sherlock finally stopped talking and folded himself into the chair that sat next to John's bed. It wasn't nearly close enough, so he scootched it rather noisily until he was as close as he could get without jumping into the bed next to him. He tentatively laid his almost warm hand over John's still slightly chilly one and shivered.

"I could say I finally know what it feels like. I felt for your pulse and I couldn't find one. I couldn't see your chest move, you weren't breathing. But, then Lestrade pushed me out of the way and he saved you, you opened your eyes and looked at me, you managed to smile at me before they took you away. So, no, I don't know what it feels like. You haven't ever died on me. Or faked dying on me. You've always been there, which is so much more than I ever expected from anyone, especially someone like you. I never told you why I had to leave you. You never asked, and by the time I could tell you, you didn't want to know."

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window. He pressed his forehead against the glass and sighed, it was that odd time of morning, night has ended, the day is taking its sweet time. For a moment the sky seemed to match the colour of the walls, the city down below was awash in the sickly grey green that his fingers were trying to find purchase on. But the walls were slick, semi gloss paint, layer after layer of green. He was sure there were buckets of the stuff in the basement somewhere, the colour hadn't changed in generations. Had to be someone in the government who invented the colour, someone upright, no nonsense, probably in Victoria's time of mourning, which had been most of her adult life.

"Why don't you tell me now?" John's voice found its way to Sherlock's ears. He didn't turn round for fear it was only in his head. Instead he flattened his palms against the wall and watched as the light changed, just enough to suggest the day would begin shortly.

"I did it to save you. And Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson. But it was really for you. I had run out of options, if I hadn't fallen, or wasn't seen as 'dead,' Moriarty's man had instructions to kill you. I have letters I have written you all inside my head, trying to tell you what I was seeing and doing, begging your forgiveness. You were always inside my head, always with me. I had hoped you had moved on. You always deserved so much more than what I could give you. After two years, you had buried me, believed you had buried me, and yet, you stayed. I've never understood that, John."

"I hate moving. And do you know how hard it is to find a decent flatmate in this town?"

Sherlock finally turned to see John struggling to sit up, tears running down his face. He moved as quickly as he could, adjusted the bed and moved the pillows for him before he reached out to touch him.

"I'm sorry." John whispered as he took Sherlock's hand in his.

"You're - " Sherlock shook his head at him. "No -"

"I, uhm...always believed you did it because...damn it. I thought you were just playing the game, but when you came back, and you needed me, just me, I should've known better. I did know better...I -"

"Shh...you have a concussion, you don't know what you're saying. Stop, please? Just breathe for me, you swallowed a lot of water when you followed that arsehole into the Thames, and it took me time to find you, almost too long. Look at me, please."

John looked at Sherlock's face, even paler than usual, his clear eyes clouded with unshed tears, and said quietly, "I hate this colour too. Do ya think, maybe, just maybe, Mycroft could twist some arms and get me the hell out of here? I want to go home, please, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded and kissed John's forehead, then pulled out his phone and texted his brother.

He's ready to go home. Now. Please. - SH

I'll see what I can do. - MH

Thank you. - SH


End file.
